Spiral
by ValykirieRevolution
Summary: One-shot, Drabble-ish. Tags inside. Set post season 7, pre-season 8. Castiel is attacked while in Purgatory. His thoughts on the matter.


**Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and his cool cats, and their network the CW. Just giving some borrowed entertainment for y'all.**

** Warnings/Tags: Slash, injury-perhaps character death.**

** AN: I'm not sure if this'll become a series or stay a one-shot. That'll be up to you guys, so be sure to leave a review if you'd like more. That said, enjoy!**

Spiral:

The thing he likes most about Dean is the back of his knees. No, that's not quite correct. He likes everything about Dean, but he likes this best. It was probably a strange thing to like. They weren't really considered the most appealing, or even noticeable feature. Maybe he enjoyed them because of their implications. The way they moved, helping keep balance for the man they belonged to. It must have been how they aided Dean when the man would be propping himself against a bed frame. How they could make his legs cross and uncross; like they knew they had to help Dean move. At first he thought them all to be under appreciated-because they were-the way their bodies were all connected together. The sinews, muscles, blood, and bone forming a cohesive unit. The back of the knees were merely part of this. Then he realized that the back of Dean's knees were special. They were a part of the righteous man's walk.

His walk was something righteous all on its own. Something that couldn't be quantified, because how could you quantify Dean Winchester? A man whose walk would make his borrowed guts clench in anticipation for something he wasn't sure he was allowed to have, let alone understand. Let alone expect. He wasn't sure why he is even allowing himself to think on what he knows he has already admitted to himself. Perhaps it's because he can feel himself dying and soon it will no longer matter.

Still…he wants to see the back of those knees again. He tries to laugh at the irony, unable to do so without bringing up brackish blood. The irony is that he has seen the back of those knees so often, because Dean walks away from him easily. He ignores the two sets or eyes staring at him, preferring to concentrate on the green pair. As wonderful as the back of those knees were, those eyes could not be denied. Suddenly he didn't want to. It even overcame the brief regret at not throwing caution to the wind sooner. That so much had been lost, but he wanted to experience true reckless abandon. Shifting to get upright is far more painful than he expected, but Dean is there to make sure he doesn't fall, adjusting him so that Castiel could rest his head against Dean's shoulder. He doesn't want to do that. He grips Dean's jacket hard enough for his knuckles to turn white.

The leviathan's poison is burning him from the inside, unable to leave the prison that is his vessel. Being in such proximity to Dean means he gets to see him up close. The dirt and dried blood, but beneath that-the scars, the freckles-ten in all. The slight bump in his nose from an old break. The brows drawn in confusion-and dare he think it-worry. The beginnings of a beard, an unusual break from the more familiar smoothness. Eyes wide and green, and full of all that he had come to know as good. It would be worth anything and everything for that face to be the last one he ever saw. Dean's hands gripped him like iron-like fire, like paying him back in kind. He smiled, so he would be gripped tight in the end, just before the end.

He wants to say something. Anything of substance, to show his gratitude. That isn't what happens. He becomes inarticulate. It's frustrating to feel so much finally and unable to express it in words. Then surety grips him once mores as he realize for once words won't be necessary.

Dean opens his mouth, to say what, he isn't sure, but Castiel doesn't heed it. He just presses his lips to Dean's. He can hear the surprise, feel it in the way Dean's whole body freezes. Castiel doesn't care, just presses harder. The effect for him is immediate, as though his body-he thinks of it as his in this moment-comes fully under his command, and yet not. Spasms rack him. If he thought a leviathan's touch burned, this was much hotter. Far more exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He doesn't know what to do. His lips move in an unexpected and furious way. He wants no barriers between Dean and himself and some instinct within him tells him that that is impossible. He finally realizes that for every deep feeling, a contradictory one is felt right alongside it. Because it is worth everything to be kissing Dean. If only he figured out sooner that words were not enough, he'd happily sacrifice his vocabulary if it meant he could keep kissing Dean. If only…

Fireworks burst in his vision, and as much as he wanted to attribute it to Dean, the black spots dancing around his eyes told him it was because he wasn't getting enough oxygen. So his time was almost up. He gave one more push to the best part of Dean's anatomy before he gasped and the world reeled.

The black and barren woods of purgatory slanted as the unfamiliar sky stared back at him-perhaps there was everyone and no one there. Where was up again, his hands flailing, no more able to break his fall than his wings. He was aware that Dean was shouting, but it was from a distance and it was the last thing he heard before oblivion over took him and pulled him down.


End file.
